


Mister Monster

by NorroenDyrd



Series: The Shyest Vampire [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Care, Gen, Homelessness, Protectiveness, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drug Use, Vampire Lord, Vampires, Windhelm, suicide prevention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10651809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: The vampire Dragonborn finds an unexpected benevolent use for his powers.





	Mister Monster

There are many superstitions being kept alive among the children of Skyrim, passed on from generation to generation. Tall tales of haunted houses and cozy-looking villages inhabited by no-one except skeletons, and of shadows slinking in deep dark caverns and bodiless voices chanting the name of someone who is supposed to die, and of Daedric curses and blood baths in the days of some unspecified war - to be shared in the dusk at the fireside, varying in grizzly detail but all going back to a number of simple, basic plotlines, which were already going around when the heavy rattle of Dark Anchor chains and the howling of Craglorn werewolves and the terrified whispers of the impending Llodos Plague were still fresh in people's memories. And forbidden, hush-hush little rituals that send a rapid shiver of fear and excitement up your spine, and make the grown-ups mighty mad if they ever find out: like coming out to the sea shore when the moons are full, your piggy bank clasped tight in your outstretched hands, and screaming into the heaving black void, daring the dread pirate Velehk Sain to come and get the treasure; or standing in front of a mirror, chanting 'Queen Potema! Queen Potema! Queen Potema!' and preparing to run when withered bony arms reach out to grab you; or stopping in the middle of a forest clearing with your eyes shut tight, waiting for the Falmer to come out and start chasing you in the dark.  
  
There are many superstitions out there. Many impossible ghost stories. Many scary games. They have always been there, and they will remain long after the breathless, giggling younglings turn into stern bearded men and no-nonsense women, who will leave their children without dinner if they catch them trying to summon Queen Potema. But one story is new. One story does not boil down to the ancient fireside yarns. One story is rooted in today's life of scruffy street urchins, who do not even have their own rooms with a mirror on the wall that they might want to use to awaken the old Queen. One story, unlike the others, actually has a way of coming true.  
  
This is the story of Mister Monster.  
  
Nobody knows who first started telling it, and how it has managed to travel so far and so fast, becoming known to each and every child without a home or a loving family, whether they might be hunting for scraps along the rancid-smelling canals of Riften, or trying not to freeze during the endless bitter nights in Windhelm's Grey Quarter. And when it comes down to it, this doesn't really matter. What matters is the one thing that is absolutely, completely certain. No matter who you are - a gangly Nord lad whose parents went off to fight the 'Imperial milk drinkers' and never came back, or a small Dunmer girl who shrinks her head into her shoulders every time she hears humans' loud voices, or a quivering puff of fur that is actually a lost and freezing Khajiit kitten - and no matter where or how you eke out your living, all you have to do is call for Mister Monster, to invite him to whatever place you call your home (even if it is just a shallow hole dug in the ground, with a few planks placed over it to keep out the rain)... And he will come. Not to grab you and drag you off, like the nasty old spooks from fireside tales - no, he will come to help.  
  
He may not appear straight away - rumour has it that Mister Monster is quite shy and does not like to show his face because it is far, far too repulsive to look at. And frankly, that is quite understandable, if you ask the little city Orcs who are not used to being called anything but 'filthy pig children'; or young Argonians who get dead frogs pinned to the doorway of their ramshackle hovels, together with notes saying things like 'say hi to your mom'; or mixed-blooded Altmer children, who did not ask for one of their parents to get together with a human or a 'lesser elf', and now have to cower and hide every time they spot a procession of tall, black-robed battle mages marching down the road.  
  
He may not appear straight away - but you need not despair. It just takes a little patience - and chances are, you already know the value of patience, if you have ever crouched behind a pile of wooden crates in a busy market, waiting for both the merchant and the nearest guard to turn away to that you might snatch a loaf of bread for yourself. You have to keep calling, to keep waiting - and soon enough, Mister Monster will come. All stories of him agree to that - and all stories of him are true.  
  
He takes many forms, Mister Monster. Sometimes he is just a hand, with long white fingers, which appears out of nowhere and knocks the welcoming purple bottle out of your hands, just as you are in the middle of telling yourself that, if this skooma thing helps the grown-ups forget that the world is dark and grey and cruel, perhaps it will help you too - and then, clasps your fingers tightly and leads you off to a place where the hearth is filled with crackling logs, and there are thick blankets and a bowl (or three!) of piping-hot potato soup, and all the darkness and greyness and cruelty ebbs away. For real - not like in a moonsugar dream.  
  
Sometimes he is a cloud of dense, swirling mist that fills the street when you are pressed into a corner by a pack of staggering, thick-armed humans, who bark out hot, mean, mead-tinged laughter in your face, and offer to make your grey skin nice and red. And a friendly voice that guides you to safety while the humans blunder about in the sightless void, aiming blows at you but only ending up whacking each other.  
  
Sometimes, he is a black shadow that looms behind your back and rests its hands on your shoulders in the middle of your father's enraged rant about how it is all your fault that the family is living in squalor, that you eat too much and work too little, that you are too weak, too useless, too needy... That you should never have been born. Beetroot-purple in colour when he began, your father's face turns white as a sheet when he sees the shadow - and when you slant your eyes to make out the features of this unexpected guest, all you see are two eyes, burning like two smouldering coals. But unlike the now wheezing, petrified grown-up, you are not afraid. Because you know - somehow, you just do - that the shadow is a friend, and that it will never let anyone hurt you again.  
  
And sometimes, Mister Monster is an enormous winged creature, like a bat, but much, much bigger, that sweeps you up and carry you away from the edge when you linger on the top of a cliff, watching the sea churn down below, torn between the thought that you will not bear to face yet another spring, your fourteenth (or is it fifteenth?), in this blasted, miserable place, and the fear that this way, you will not get to Sovngarde, where Ma and Da surely wait... if, in the middle of their feast, they have not forgotten about a worthless wretch like you. And then, the giant grey wings flap again, and as the creature's strong claws hold you tight, you soar high above the cliff, and the sea stretches below like a glimmering ribbon resting on the rocky shoulders of your hold's shoreline... So, for a moment, you decide that that the place is not that miserable, after all; while somewhere in your head, a gentle voice agrees - but warns you that the stifling, empty feeling might return again, when you least expect it, and sometimes looking at pretty views is not enough, and that there are potions that might help. He knows just the sort of person who makes such potions, the voice tells you, as the creature carries you somewhere northward, its wings now pitch-black against the blaze of aurora in the sky. A priest of Mara. He will give you counsel; he will listen, and quell your pain; he will become your friend. Your second friend, you might add, an almost forgotten smile touching your lips. Because the first is right here.  
  
Shadow and mist, bat and ghost. Mister Monster takes many forms - but whichever he may choose, you will never fail to recognize him. Mister Monster cares for you, even when it may seem that no-one else does.  
  
Mister Monster is here to help.  
  
All you need is to let him in.


End file.
